Mrs. Eastman was a proud woman and a determined one. She had always disliked Bessy Houghton, and she went home from the quilting resolved to put an instant stop to “all such nonsense” on her son’s part. “Where is Lawrie?” she asked abruptly, as she entered the small kitchen where George Eastman was lounging by the fire. “Out in the stable grooming up Lady Gray,” responded her older son, sulkily. “I suppose he’s gadding off to see Bessy Houghton again, the young fool that he is! Why don’t you put a stop to it?” “I am going to put a stop to it,” said Mrs. Eastman grimly. “I’d have done it before if I’d known. You should have told me of it if you knew. I’m going out to see Lawrence right now.” George Eastman muttered something inaudible as the door closed behind her. He was a short, thick-set man, not in the least like Lawrence, who was ten years his junior. Two years previously he had made a furtive attempt to pay court to Bessy Houghton for the sake of her wealth, and her decided repulse of his advances was a remembrance that made him grit his teeth yet. He had hated her bitterly ever since. Lawrence was brushing his pet mare’s coat until it shone like satin, and whistling “Annie Laurie” until the rafters rang. Bessy had sung it for him the night before. He could see her plainly still as she had looked then, in her gown of vivid red—a color peculiarly becoming to her—with her favorite laces at wrist and throat and a white rose in her hair, which was dressed in the high, becoming knot she had always worn since the night he had shyly told her he liked it so. She had played and sung many of the sweet old Scotch ballads for him, and when she had gone to the door with him he had taken both her hands in his and, emboldened by the look in her brown eyes, he had stooped and kissed her. Then he had stepped back, filled with dismay at his own audacity. But Bessy had said no word of rebuke, and only blushed hotly crimson. She must care for him, he thought happily, or else she would have been angry. When his mother came in at the stable door her face was hard and uncompromising. “Lawrie,” she said sharply, “where are you going again to-night? You were out last night.” “Well, mother, I promise you I wasn’t in any bad company. Come now, don’t quiz a fellow too close.” “You are going to dangle after Bessy Houghton again. It’s time you were told what a fool you were making of yourself. She’s old enough to be your mother. The whole settlement is laughing at you.” Lawrence looked as if his mother had struck him a blow in the face. A dull, purplish flush crept over his brow. “This is some of George’s work,” he broke out fiercely. “He’s been setting you on me, has he? Yes, he’s jealous—he wanted Bessy himself, but she would not look at him. He thinks nobody knows it, but I do. Bessy marry him? It’s very likely!”